


Their Favourite Game

by JollyRogue



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 07:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyRogue/pseuds/JollyRogue
Summary: Crozier and Fitzjames make the best of a boring day in the Arctic.





	Their Favourite Game

James Fitzjames wears his epauletted dress uniform, just brushed to look like new, with the elegance and composure of one who has worn it all his life. This morning his steward has spent at least an hour burnishing those gold buttons, and then another applying the curling iron to his hair, as if to prepare him for a London society ball. James' boots, newly polished and blackened, click on the wooden floor as he circles around his prisoner.

 

That man, a ruffian named Francis Crozier, is now fully at James' mercy. He sits on a wooden chair in the middle of the great cabin of HMS _Erebus_ , wearing his usual dark blue uniform trousers, paired with an old white shirt and nothing more. The little stove is working at full blast so the cabin is warm enough for him not to shiver with cold. It helps that he's had some whiskey too – Francis would not be so ready game without some alcohol as fuel, but James doesn't mind – he's partaken too, and he has to admit it makes it easier to fall into his role.

 

Francis's wrists are bound with rope behind his back, fastened to the wooden chair. They aren't very tight knots so Francis can free himself with ease at any moment – it's part of their play.

James sighs, and steps right in front of his lover, now prisoner, sizing him up with a long, contemplating look, brows furrowed. In one white leather-gloved hand he holds a riding crop; with his other he brings a pipe to his mouth, and inhales.

 

Francis does not falter under James' gaze.

 

James exhales, blowing a cloud of smoke into the captain's face. Although used to pipe tobacco the older man has to cough.

James frowns, then finally speaks.

 

"Well. Francis Crozier. What are we going to do with you?"

 

"I'm not going to give you your whiskey back", Francis says, gruffy voice full of triumph. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

 

Actually, the matter of the whiskey was already settled months ago and now serves only as a premise to their little game. It was Francis who first confided in James about his fantasy of being dominated and bullied by an uniformed superior, and James has grown to love it more than he tought possible. So far they have not even used their stopping word yet. Every time James pays careful attention to the captain's reactions, making sure the older man is getting exactly what he wants.

James brings the pipe to his mouth, and breathes another cloud of smoke right into his captive's face; then he drops it onto a tin plate on the table so he has one hand free.

 

"Speak!" he commands, and slaps Francis's cheeks twice. The captain flinches when James' palm hits him, but his grin tells how far he is from feeling uncomfortable.

 

"Speak up, thief!" James raises his voice. "Who helped you?!"

 

Francis stays silent, grinning at him.

 

"Don't make me use violence, scoundrel!"

 

"It takes more than threats to make me talk", Francis states. He's still smiling, and his gaze is fixed on Commander Fitzjames.

 

James lifts one leg and stomps his foot right onto the edge of the seat between Francis's thighs, and he leans forward until his nose almost touches Francis's. With one hand he grabs the captain's jaw. "I order you to speak!"

In his other hand James still holds the riding crop which he twirls and taps on Francis's thighs.

 

Then, remembering what he wanted to do this time, he grabs the front of Francis's white shirt and pulls hard. There's a ripping sound as buttons fly loose, and the captain cannot suppress a sharply drawn in breath. The next second the old shirt is hanging loose from his shoulders, fully open at the front; and his chest and stomach, their forms more accentuated than hidden by graying hair, are exposed. The rugged, masculine look of his body creates a captivating contrast to the smooth whiteness of the shirt.

 

There is another pause as they stare into each other's eyes, and when Francis talks it's not what any interrogator would have ever expected from his victim.

"Commander, you have the most beautiful eyes, sir."

 

James stares, face frozen wide-eyed. Abruptly he stumbles backward, and his cheeks blush like ripe peaches. "How dare you!" With a trembling hand he points the riding crop at Francis's half bared chest. "You insolent, brazen, impertinent wretch, how _dare_ you mock your superiors!"

He whips the crop across Francis's torso. A part of him is amazed at the acting skills he never knew he had, although he is shamelessly exaggerating.

 

Quickly James regains his wits and sits down on the large cabin desk in front of the chair where the _Terror's_ captain sits. From this elevated position he looks down at Francis as if contemplating what to do with this man who is at his complete mercy.

 

Now he can see it.

 

James raises an eyebrow, looking at the captain's crotch where an impressive bulge has formed, and he can barely suppress a grin. Who would have thought that this little game excites the old sea-dog so much, even after so many times? And what a thrill to be the one to cause this arousal! But he remains in his role. He points the riding crop at Francis's erection that's stretching the navy trouser fabric, and pokes it. "What have we got here? Is that a pistol in your pants, thug?"

 

"Why don't you find out?" Francis's mischievous grin widens.

 

James pretends to consider the option, then replies, "I'm asking the questions here, you ruffian! We shall continue with the interrogation."

 

"Commander." Francis's voice turns an octave deeper. He leans back on his chair and moves his lower body forward, as far as the ropes permit, spreading his legs wider. "You know very well what your so-called … questioning has accomplished so far."

 

James continues staring at Francis's groin. That damned uniform is now getting warm and uncomfortable.

 

Any second now the captain will free himself from these ropes and then... _oh._ A small puffing breath escapes James' lips. He knows he won't be able to keep up the act much longer.

 

"What are you waiting for, Commander?" Francis taunts him. He even bucks his hips up and toward James once, a gesture both obscene and inviting. "You know what I'd do if I weren't tied to this blasted chair. I'd rip that virtuous uniform off you, faster than a fuckin' cannon, and give you a good thorough fuckin' right here on that desk-"

 

"Quiet!" James bellows in one last attempt to keep up his act. His cheeks are hot, and something else is feeling very warm, too.

When is Francis going to get up from this chair? When?

 

"And your sorry little 'weapon' there-", a quick nod to James' riding crop, "is absolutely no match for mine."

 

Partly playing angry, partly impatient because Francis is taking time to tease him, James again hits him with the crop. It snaps when it hits the captain's legs, and James sees him wince. Another hit. _Snap._

 

And then everything happens very quickly.

 

James has hardly noticed the movements of Francis's arms behind the back of the chair, and now the older man jumps up from his seat.

 

The commander's eyes widen in surprise, and he staggers backward. His bottom hits the table edge, and he gasps, inadvertently letting the riding crop fall to the floor. His shock is almost real. And Francis lunges forward, grabbing one of James' wrists.

 

"What are-" James gasps, but in an instant the man's hand covers his mouth. It's warm, weathered and not gentle.

 

"Time to play, sweetheart", Francis growls, voice raspy with want. "Is that what the others call you, Commander? Sir John when you suck him off, when his cum soaks your neat, tidy uniform? Gore and Le Vesconte when they give you a nice hard spanking?!"

 

James' knees buckle as Francis shoves him around roughly, keeping one of the commander's hands pressed onto his back. With his arm thus bent James has difficulties resisting, and squirms in pretend protest, which feels especially naughty when his bottom, accidentally but welcomed, grinds against Francis's abdomen.

 

"Oh-oh!" Francis chuckles. "Demanding it already? Do the others know what a whore you are?" He takes his hand from James' mouth, runs it down the younger man's neck and keeps it there.

 

"Ahh …" James has trouble finding words. His mind is going dizzy with the thrill of being held in place forcefully, to feel this strong hand on his most vulnerable area. The captain caresses the tender skin of James' neck, and both know that if he were indeed in trouble there would be nothing to save James now.

"You..", the _Erebus'_ commander stutters, "...you won't get away with this!"

 

That hand, and the captain's manhood he feels pressing against his bottom, cause the hair on James' nape as well as something else to stand up. Francis erection is a thick hard ridge barely restrained by both their clothes, shoving itself between James' uniform-pants-clad buttocks. He moves once more in mock resistance, uttering a low moan.

 

"What was that?" Francis growls. He removes his hand from James' neck, and grabs his neatly coiffured, curled hair. "Do you want this? Tell me, floozy. Say it!"

 

"Yes", the younger man replies, breathless, "yes, please!" He trembles as his coattails are thrown back, and his uniform pants unbuttoned and pulled down with haste.

Cool air caresses his bare bottom, and he hopes he's still wet from the salve he has applied earlier. "Take me, just have your way with me... please." In this role it is much easier for him to spill out words he would otherwise be too shy to say.

 

Francis pushes his hard cock against him, missing James' entrance once before guiding himself inside.

 

James' moans resound through the low cabin walls, and his sweaty hands slide a few centimeters across the table.

No matter how often they've played this scenario and other games before, that first raw sensation of Francis breaching him will never lose its appealing newness. That, and the moment when the captain claims him, and marks him with his seed.

 

His hands are now holding James' waist, almost enclosing the man's slim figure. And James revels in the thrill of being held and controlled. "Ohh", he breathes as Francis pulls out and pushes back in.

 

"I really wonder...", the captain whispers, "what would... the others do if they saw you like that?" He pushes his lover hard with repeated deep thrusts. "They'll punish you... so be grateful I'm preparing you."

 

"I am", James gasps, and Francis grabs his neatly arranged hair again, demanding "Say it!"

 

"I..." James moans, and it's almost as loud as the smacking of skin on skin intermingled with the creaking of the table on the floor. "I thank you—ahh- Captain!"

 

The reality of this rough treatment, with its manly scent and Francis's relentless hands, and the table edge pressing against his lower belly, it all fuels James' imagination and in his fantasy he often takes this game a step further, imagining how the other officers will find him with his disheveled hair and barely pulled-up pants, face flustered and the smell of sex all over him, and when they forcefully remove his pants to confirm what he has done they see he's already well prepared and stretched wide by Francis's girth, even leaking seed. And they decide to punish him the way it befits a whore like him, taking turns stuffing him with their cocks both in front and rear. And Sir John is watching, regarding him with a look full of haughty disapproval. "My dear James", he'll say, "I am _disappointed_ in you." Yet, he will then demand his turn –

 

The fantasy drives James closer to the edge with each of Francis's thrusts. They become more urgent, and he holds on tighter to the younger man, clearly ready for the final spurt.

 

James, too, can't last much longer, and strokes himself with an unsteady damp hand, impatient to release the torturous tension that has built up since the very moment he has put on the uniform.

 

Francis pushes inside him hard, and remains there, and James feels the captain's body and his thigh muscles tense even through the sublime waves of his own climax.

 

It's a rare moment when they both come simultaneously, riveting both in the heat of the moment and in the heated afterglow.

James turns his head over his shoulder as far as he can to see Francis's face, and the captain pulls him close into a wet hard kiss, as if to sign and close a loving agreement.

 

He waits until his head has cooled off and the orgasmic clouds fogging his mind have passed, until he slowly stands up straight and spreads his legs slightly so his lover's essence can drip out of him. It's something he loves to feel and Francis loves to watch.

 

He caresses James' bottom, gentle as usual, his roguish role cast off. They need a break, and James knows that a love-making session makes them both hungry.

 

"Let's go to the wardroom. I've asked Mr Bridgens to prepare some oatcakes for us."

 

 

.

.

.

the end

 


End file.
